


honey

by batshape



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fin-galad Theory, Finduilas Is Gil-galad, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Post-Sirion, Third Kinslaying (Tolkien), as much as she can, ereinion epesse used throughout, giving nienor the opportunities i believe she deserved: to live and to dunk on the noldor, niënor lives au, theyre not married but they might as well be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batshape/pseuds/batshape
Summary: “You are a child of wartime.” Niënor tilts her head. “So am I."“That,” Ereinion says quietly, “sounds like a marriage proposal.”:Kingship is a heavy thing. FLW Day 7: Free Space
Relationships: Finduilas Faelivrin & Niënor Níniel, Finduilas Faelivrin/Niënor Níniel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: Finwëan Ladies Week 2020





	honey

**Author's Note:**

> the name Sírdal is from realelvish.net. it's a gender neutral Sindarin name meaning river-foot.

They are Ereinion, and they are king, and they stand in the river and feel the pressing urge to weep.

“My king,” says the miserable captain of their scouts, wiping sweat and sandy mud from his face even as he bows. Ereinion wants to weep. Their captain may want to weep as well. Neither indulge the feeling to do so. “There are no signs of further survivors beyond the settlement.”

Beside them, Niënor sinks to her knees. She is afforded that luxury, and Ereinion cannot resent her for it. They want to resent her for it.

“Then go out again,” they command. “I want to know where they have gone.”

Their captain folds at the waist and then turns smartly on his heel. Ereinion observes the blood washing into the water and closes their eyes.

“Up,” they order, though they offer Niënor a quiet hand. “On your feet. There are survivors, and they cannot see us like this.”

“So few,” mutters Niënor in the river, and Ereinion grimaces.

“Niënor. I need you on your feet.”

She is older now. Rising to her feet is an endeavor which requires a bit of aid and effort on Ereinion’s part, and Niënor curses quietly through the process, but their order is heeded. Niënor leans into their side for only a moment, and then withdraws.

“The girl,” she says. “Dior’s child, she will be grown now—“

“They have not found her,” Ereinion replies firmly. “The healers are asking when they can.” They step out of the river’s edge, and Niënor follows.

“Círdan has said that she has children. There is no sign of them, alive or dead, but I might ask you if you would aid the scouts in the search for them.” Ereinion works their jaw. The impersonal grief of managing the survivors of a slaughter has made it tight, and they feel a pain growing steadily in their temples.

They are a king in wartime, and this is what that means. They are not the preventer of tragedy, so much as they are the custodian of it.

“Me?” asks Niënor, though of course they mean her. Ereinion nods.

“Two boys, peredhil like their parents. If found alive, I imagine it might do them well to see a Mannish face, speaking Doriathrin Sindarin, among the Noldor.”

Niënor scowls. “I have not spoken Doriathrin Sindarin in thirty years, nor do I imagine it would be an affectation recognized by  _ children _ raised on the Sirion—”

“These were refugees,” interrupts Ereinion, and then corrects themself softly.  _ “Are  _ refugees. The trappings of Doriath would have been familiar here, even if they have changed with time. It may very well be the closest we can provide them to a comfort.”

“And if they are found slaughtered?”

“Niënor.” It is a question which does not require a response, for it was not asked with the intention of receiving one. “Please do not quarrel with me now.”

Niënor imparts to them a sharp look, and then presses her fist over her heart. “Whatever you will,” she says, as sharply as she can.

And Ereinion wants to pull her back, wants to demand reverence for the death in this place if not for their own authority. They are no rightful king of Niënor’s, and they know this, and yet the baleful twist to Niënor’s mouth inspires a tired anger. They know the expression is not for them, truly, as much as they know it should be.

Strangely, Ereinion wishes to apologize. For, of course, they recognize this as their own fault.

_ Too little, you have done too little. You are king and this was preventable— _

But they are king, and they do not apologize. They allow Niënor to leave, with her silvering braid swaying behind her. Ereinion stands alone. 

They begin, as they do, to order their parts. King first, survivor second, and a creature that can afford itself grief for Ereinion’s own lack of action last of all.

A child trips in Niënor’s wake, running motherless and fatherless along the reddish river, and Ereinion calls out to them in the gentlest Sindarin they can manage. (Children require gentleness, and gentleness is something at which they have always been adept.) 

The child stills, and looks up at them with wide, dark eyes. By their size, by the knowing in their eyes, Ereinion would have guessed they were a Mannish child, if not for the pointed shape of their ears. Peredhel, though surely not one of those which Ereinion seeks. If they were more familiar with Mannish age, they might have more confidently guessed that this child was nearing ten.

“Are you looking for someone?” Ereinion asks them, bending carefully to their knees. “Are you lost?”

The child does not speak. Instead, quietly, they begin to cry.

“Oh, little one,” says Ereinion, very softly. They open their arms, and the setting Sun reflects brightly on the plated armor they wear. But Ereinion wears blue, not red, and though the child rubs at their eyes, they do not flee. “Would you like help?”

There is something clutched in the child’s hand—perhaps a stone, which must be sharp enough to cut, for there is blood dried between the child’s fingers. Ereinion sighs.

“Come here,” they command, still softly, and with the gravity of a parent more so than a king. There is no one left to remember that it is Orodreth who twines in their voice. (Orodreth is one part of Ereinion which they find little difficulty in ordering. Anxieties about leadership are rife with their late father’s influence.) “You are bleeding.”

The child heeds the command apprehensively, stepping forward and offering Ereinion their closed fist. They take the child by the wrist, very slowly.

“What is your name?” they ask, and—knowing the transactional way of children—add: “Mine is Ereinion.”

“Sírdal,” mumbles the child, and Ereinion offers them a small smile. They fold their own hand over Sírdal’s and begin gently to pry open their fingers.

“Sírdal,” they say conversationally. “That is a good name. Does it hurt when I do this?”

Sírdal’s jaw tightens. Fiercely, obviously untruthfully, they shake their head.

“I see.” Ereinion releases Sírdal’s fingers, but cups the child’s bleeding hand between both of their own. “I am going to do it quickly, because it is best to do these things quickly. Don’t you agree?”

Sírdal does not weigh in with their opinion, one way or another. Tears leave grimy tracks down their cheeks, and their lower lip quivers with the maintenance of the lie that they feel no pain. Ereinion waits no further for a response, and pries open the child’s hand.

It is a piece of pottery, a broken shard of claywork clutched tightly enough in Sírdal’s hand that it has sliced open their palm. Ereinion hums sympathetically.

“Is this yours?” Ereinion asks, and the child sniffs. Nods.

“Alright,” Ereinion says, and they carefully pluck the shard from the bloodied edges of the child’s palm. Quietly, with a panicked sound, Sírdal protests. “Allow me to clean and bandage your hand first, and then I will return it to you. It is only right here—” Plainly, Ereinion sets the broken pottery before their knee in the sand. “—and it will be safe there for a few moments more.”

With their left hand Ereinion seeks the waterskin at their own waist, untying it from their belt and uncorking it with their teeth. Their right hand still holds gently the wrist of the child, and without consulting their new young companion, Ereinion pours water from the skin directly over Sírdal’s torn palm. Sírdal’s fingers twitch, and they make a rough noise of distress.

“That  _ hurts—” _

Again Ereinion hums, not so much a Song of healing but a few soothing notes they yet remember from their own youth. Sírdal does not pull away, and furthermore they do not finish their protest, settling only on a small noise of discomfort. Ereinion continues to hum, and Sírdal’s mouth turns downward, as if they are reminded of the reason that they were so recently in tears.

“Are you a soldier?” they ask tremulously, and Ereinion looks into the child’s face to smile.

“What gave it away?” they counter lightly, and Sírdal rubs at their eyes again with their free hand.

“The armor,” they answer earnestly. “It is very bright, and your clothes are very blue, and—what is that?”

Ereinion has uncapped a small jar from their pack, which they have discarded on the sand beside them. Absently, they release Sírdal’s wrist to rinse their own hands in the contents of their waterskin, and then daub a finger in the contents of the jar.

“Mostly honey,” Ereinion says, and lifts upward the jar in question. “You can taste it, if you doubt me.”

Sírdal regards them quietly, and does not accept the offer. Ereinion withdraws the jar.

“It will stave off an infection.” Gently, they spread the honey mixture over the child’s open palm. “Or so my Mannish friend tells me, and in forty years I have not seen it fail to do as she says it does.”

“Ereinion,” says Sírdal quietly. Ereinion continues to hum, though the pitch shifts downward into something lower and drowsier. This time it is a mild healing Song—nothing grand, for since the fall of Nargothrond they have not managed anything  _ grand  _ with regards to Song—which they know from experience will make the recipient’s head heavy. Sírdal blinks. “That sounds familiar.”

“Perhaps you have a friend of the same name,” suggests Ereinion, and dreamily Sírdal nods. Expertly, Ereinion binds their small hand in bandages and then retrieves the piece of broken clay from the sand. “This belongs to you.”

“I cannot find my mother,” Sírdal murmurs, as Ereinion presses the rinsed pottery back into their wrapped hand. Softly, with a sinking heart, Ereinion tilts their head.

And Sírdal knows, certainly, and Ereinion cannot bring themself to lie to them, and they watch as the peredhel child begins to cry anew.

_ I am sorry,  _ they cannot say, for this is a child, and an apology from a king means nothing to a new orphan. An apology from a king means nothing at all. They know this, they know this, and yet they still feel the need.

Quietly again, they open their arms. Sírdal tips into them quickly, desperately, and Ereinion is surely an uncomfortable embrace dressed as they are in their sharp shining armor, but the child does not appear to mind. They weep themself weary into Ereinion’s chest, and Ereinion hums something soft of their own design. When they stand, lifting Sírdal into their arms and tucking them carefully against their chest as they do so, the child is teetering on the precipice of sleep. Ereinion braces a careful hand against the curve of their small skull.

There is a man in the tent governed by Ereinion’s healers who thanks them profusely when they arrive, Sírdal sleeping quietly against their shoulder. There is a good amount of crying involved in these expressions of gratitude, crying even as soft grateful kisses are pressed to the child’s closed eyelids, and Ereinion can only nod so much before they too begin to feel the need to weep. They excuse themself from the scene, as humbly as possible.

They do not judge small comforts to be penance for all they have done, or all they have neglected to do. And yet, a gentle king is a better king than anything else they have tried so far.

When Niënor returns with the Noldor scouts long after nightfall, Ereinion tips their head to her silently. They have been sent to rest by Círdan— _ you are no king of mine, and I am telling you to rest,  _ he had intoned sternly, sounding rather like Niënor when he did it—and Ereinion had heeded the command. They had been more of a comfort to children than anything else; they are no healer, and can only do so much with honey. Now, the children who remain in Sirion have mostly been Sung to sleep.

Now, Ereinion is sitting upon the ground by a smouldering pit of embers, and Niënor only shakes her head. She sits on the opposing side of the embers, and says nothing at all. Ereinion does not remove their boots.

“They have taken them then,” Ereinion says, and Niënor scowls. She had gathered as much, the expression says. “Perhaps if I ride out alone, I can persuade them—”

“You will not.” Niënor stares darkly at the silty ground, and does not meet their affronted gaze. “They will sooner kill you than anything else.”

Ereinion matches her scowl. “You do not know that.”

Niënor gestures with a brief, sharp motion at the dark camps about them. From many directions, Ereinion hears songs of mourning.

“I am their cousin,” they say. They narrow their eyes. “I am High King of the Noldor.” 

Niënor rasps a laugh. She is crying too, Ereinion sees, and they twist their fingers roughly in the dirt beside them. Niënor says, “You will be a dead fool as much as a king if you do that.”

Ereinion dips their head. She is right, they know. But Niënor is not king, and Niënor has never lived in Nargothrond, and Niënor does not know of the longing to be foolish, as long as the errand is kind and good and  _ right,  _ that has defined them under all of their many names.

They say, “I met a peredhel child today, after you left with the scouts.”

“I still will not marry you, if that is what you mean to suggest,” replies Niënor, and Ereinion chokes. Laughs, briefly and quietly, in the firelit dark.

“It is not.”

Silence falls between them, and Ereinion resists the urge to weep.

“The Noldor do not typically have children in wartime anyway,” they say, at last. Niënor scoffs.

“The Noldor are fools, Ereinion,” she says. “I will not apologize for saying it. You know that as well as I do.”

“There is a sound logic to it. I would not want to bring a child here, to live under the constant threat of violence, if I thought that I could outlive the violence first.”

Niënor is rolling her eyes, they know it. “You cannot _anticipate_ a perfect environment for a child, Ereinion. You may outlive the war, but—” Again, she gestures around them. “—Morgoth himself did not do this. There will always be risk to an action, and to think that you can simply wait out the terrible times is something I will never understand.”

“Well,” says Ereinion, quietly. “Men die.”

Niënor bares her teeth. “Ereinion.” She need not say what she means. It is better that she does not, camped as they are so close to the Havens.

“My father would argue the same thing, when I was young.” Ereinion carves the silt from under their fingernails. “He was not always as nervous as the histories make him now. He married in Mithrim.”

“You are a child of wartime.” Niënor tilts her head. “So am I.”

“That,” Ereinion says quietly, “sounds like a marriage proposal.”

In the dark, Niënor sighs heavily. “Perhaps it is,” she replies. “Perhaps it would be, would it not make me—” A slight sound of disgust, a breathless and humorless laugh. “Queen of the Noldor? Is that a position allotted to the children of Men?”

Ereinion snorts. They doubt it. Though, they suppose, they are king, and they could make it so if they wished.

They do not say this. They sit in silence, until a rustling of leaves and wool from across the dim embers betrays Niënor’s movement. She stands, skirts the flame quietly, and then sits again beside Ereinion on the silty ground. Carefully, she folds their right hand into her own.

“You can help them yet, Ereinion,” she says. “And you can help here. You and I know both that a tragedy does not often end where you think it does.”

They are Ereinion, and they are king. 

They have not always been Ereinion, nor have they always been king. Many names, many tragedies, many reasons to weep with their palms tight against their mouth, because they are a princess and they are responsible and they are in love, and they can weep only so long as it is silent and gentle, as they ought to be.

They are Ereinion, and they are king. Their hair is a silvery blonde, and it curls with less coiling elegance than their Arafinwëan ancestors. They have run barefoot in Nargothrond, and been caught shrieking about the waist by Felagund their uncle, and he has laughed and laughed and said with perhaps more foresight than they had both realized,  _ one day, princess, you are going to be trouble for us all. _

Slowly, softly, they press their cheek to Niënor’s shoulder. She tips her head downward to touch her lips to their hair. This close, Ereinion smells the faint metal of blood about her, and their hand goes to their bag.

Niënor is bleeding, only gently, from a cut across her cheekbone. Made from perhaps a whipping tree branch, a too sharp vine—Ereinion does not know, and does not ask. They only dip their fingertips in honey, and smear the mixture silently across Niënor’s cheek.

It is a small comfort. Ereinion watches the orange glow of the embers, and thinks of the coming of day.

**Author's Note:**

> three fics in less than a week. terrible. i did not have time for this, but i have done it. alas.  
> i've thought a lot about this nebulous fin-galad/"nienor lives and follows them around until she dies and they are both unlucky and burdened by great responsibility but nevertheless loved" au, and this is (part of) the result. credit for the fin-galad theory goes, of course, to princess-faelivrin on tumblr  
> (i suppose this kind of pairs with my other fic, on survival, about the aftermath of sirion on the other side. at least, unintentionally, the endings match one another.)  
> you can find me on batshape.tumblr.com


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